Wreckage
by DiscoSludge
Summary: They'd call him 'Glass Cannon,' but the nickname had always always felt forced to him. How often could he dodge until something finally hit him? He supposed he had his answer. Some pieces are more difficult to pick up than others. Akihiko's life has been fueled by this principle. Set after October 4th but before Akihiko's hospital visit. Akihiko/Mitsuru with implied FeMC/Shinjiro.


**Takes place after October 4th, before Akihiko's hospital visit.**

* * *

Akihiko punches and punches and punches and each delivery of his fist is met by the thick resistance of the punching bag. Sweat beads down his forehead and he knows that ten million showers will not wash away the grime.

 _Take care of them._

Punch.

 _Take care._

Punch.

 _Aki._

The bag swings a little too far forward and it flails itself wildly in Akihiko's direction causing him to step back and swerve away. Always dodging and weaving—that was Akihiko's signature. They'd call him 'Glass Cannon' which he supposed was comical in its own way, but the nickname had always _always_ felt forced to him. How often could he dodge until something finally hit him? He supposed he had his answer.

Akihiko growls angrily in spite of himself and grabs his sweat-soaked t-shirt from the nape of his neck. Ripping it off in a fashion that could only be described as violent, Akihiko feels the cool air-conditioned gym air tickle against his muscles. He doesn't like the cold.

 _Bang._ The gunshot resounds in his ears, and he takes a moment to snap his neck back and forth in a weak effort to find the source of the noise. It's all in his head (they always are.)

It wasn't a gunshot but rather the slam of a gymnasium door being opened. Akihiko hears the light footfalls of someone behind him, but chooses to ignore it.

"May I join you?" Mitsuru's voice breaks him out of his reverie, and Akihiko takes a moment to look behind himself, in spite of himself. She stands before him in the dim, hazy afternoon light wearing shorts and a t-shirt, hair tied in a perfect ponytail. Akihiko stares at her, almost unsure of the person in front of him, before clearing his throat.

"What?" Is all he manages because how could she come to his gym like this at this time on this day?

"I figured that physically training together would be a good team-building exercise." Mitsuru waves her hand as some vague practice in explanations, and Akihiko can't even truly argue. They both know that she's never been good with excuses, but she's always been good at making excuses sound genuine.

"No offense," Akihiko says as he stands before her. "I don't think you and I need to be team-building. I've known you for how many years now?"

"And yet you've never grown less contentious with me," Mitsuru says behind a smirk.

For a moment, Akihiko forgets about Strega and pools of blood and dead boys. It's enough, he thinks.

"Fine. You don't normally let off steam here." It's an observation, boring and plain considering the circumstances, but Akihiko is desperate for some sense of normalcy. He wants her to talk, to say anything to fill these empty spaces, but Mitsuru says nothing in return.

"Get me the speed-bag." Mitsuru points a few feet over to where a tiny, blue speed-bag leans against the brick wall. Akihiko doesn't argue. Arguing doesn't feel like it used to and really what was the point? He steps over to the bag and subconsciously drags it over to the spot next to his. Mitsuru watches him through the entire process, studying how his eyes squint as he exerts himself, glancing at the way his muscles pull tighter around his arms and bellybutton and looser around his chest. He is a mess.

"Have you used a speed-bag before?" Akihiko looks over at Mitsuru and asks. She shrugs (he's not sure what that means) before grabbing the bottom of her t-shirt and pulling upwards. Akihiko turns his gaze towards the window despite everything between them, every intimate thread that had already been woven, every close-call, every _almost_.

The two seniors stand in their gym, both in similar states of undress (though Akihiko supposes that Mitsuru's sports-bra is much more modest than his shirtless state) and yet he feels as though she's in a completely different place. Mitsuru was made for photographs and for sunlight. Akihiko was better suited for underbellied-gymnasiums and quiet dormitories.

She lifts her arms and begins to swat at the speed-bag and Akihiko can't even bring himself to be impressed because _of course_ she is good at this. She is Mitsuru and as far as he is concerned she is good at everything presented to her. It's her job to be good.

"Have you spoken to Arisato?" Mitsuru asks between breaths. The name sounds unfamiliar to Akihiko—he is so accustomed to 'Minako' now that anything else seems cold—and it stops him for a moment.

"Have you?" Akihiko responds. He knows how much Mitsuru loathes the 'question-with-a-question' game, but final answers didn't really make sense to him anymore.

"She's been smiling, cooking dinners with Yamagishi. She's going to be okay." Mitsuru begins to punch once more. Akihiko marvels at the way she's barely even sweating, marvels at the way her arms move forward in quick, sharp movements. Why wasn't she here more often?

"She still wearing the watch?" Akihiko asks. He delivers a heavy right hook to the punching bag in front of him and it feels foreign. Akihiko had always been a southpaw.

"Of course," Mitsuru says before flashing him a quick glance. Akihiko looks over just in time to see a bead of sweat drip off of Mitsuru's long eyelashes.

"Good," Punch. "Good."

Words fall short for them in times like these: dark, desperate times. Sometimes, Akihiko thinks that he can see the way Mitsuru tries to process things in her mind, tries to rationalize things.

"You can't punch everything…everyone," Mitsuru says quietly before delivering a few quick blows to the bag in front of her. Akihiko stops and takes a breath. There is a pregnant silence, far too long, where neither of them do or say anything. Akihiko feels his own shoulders rise and fall as if he's not controlling them before he looks to his right at her. Mitsuru stands next to him, barely two feet away with a layer of sweat on her brow and flyaway hairs in every direction.

"I didn't ask for therapy." Akihiko responds.

"Akihiko-"

"No," He interrupts her (there's a first time for everything, he supposes.) "You came here knowing that I would be alone. You came here to try and talk to me, to try and fix me."

"You're not broken," Mitsuru says. Akihiko feels her words like a slap, no matter how kind the intent. She was not his mother, never had been and never could be. He never asked for a pair of coddling hands. He was asking for a chance to grow stronger…to be better. If he could just…do better, things would be okay.

"I know." Akihiko turns away from her gaze slowly, deliberately.  
Right hook. Very good. Left swing. Not as good as it could be. Right swing-

Mitsuru's tiny, perfectly-manicured hand is clutching his wrist with bright, white knuckles. Akihiko holds his arm out, stick-straight. His eyes meet her's over the curve of his arm. There is something desperate and pleading about the look she is giving him—something that he could never imagine in her eyes.

"Why?" Akihiko asks, and the question is applying to everything at once and nothing at all. Why did Shinji have to die like that? Why did circumstances always turn the barrel in Akihiko's direction? Why was he never good enough? Why could he never be good enough?

Akihiko feels warmth against his cheeks and he realizes that he is sobbing. A sob, feral and sad, leaves his throat and Akihiko feels the world beneath him shift. All he can see is Mitsuru's perfectly-done face through watery eyes. He grabs her arms and feels her hands cradle his elbows.

"Akihiko…" Mitsuru says quietly, tearfully. His head falls on her shoulder, tears hitting her skin and leaving small, salty stains.

"I can't save everyone." Akihiko's voice is hoarse through the sobs. He can't imagine what Shinjiro would say—he doesn't want to imagine the guttural way his words always seemed like they meant more than they did, he doesn't want to imagine the way Shinjiro would sigh and shake his head like he was a 40-year-old man rather than an 18-year-old boy.

Mitsuru's shoulders fall up and down in tiny sobs, little sobs that you could only ever catch if you had known her long enough. She was like that—always holding back ten feet. Always keeping everything at an arm's length.

But not him. Not them.

"I should have paid more attention," Mitsuru begins, her voice uneven, but just barely. "October fourth. I should have kept a better eye on them, should have…should have done something. Taken better precautionary measures…taken better care." Akihiko exhales and she feels the warmth of his breath travel down her back.

"But I didn't. I have to live with that. I will be better next time. I will be more careful." Mitsuru turns her head. Akihiko's silver hair tickles her nose and cheek. He smells like sweat and something that Mitsuru cannot place. Maybe it's home.

Akihiko looks up and suddenly their faces are close so close. He feels her breath mix in with his own. Tear stains line her cheeks, and he can see the flecks of mascara petal her eyelids.

"I'm so sorry." And he's not really apologizing to her, but rather the idea of her. The idea of the early days: Shinjiro, Mitsuru, Akihiko. He's apologizing to everything and nothing. He's apologizing to himself, to Ken, to Minako, to Shinjiro. Time stops and Mitsuru closes her eyes.

"You're forgiven."

And she would always be his deliverance, his acquittal, his reprieve. When she says it he believes her, he believes in the idea that his sins were his own and they were plenty but they were not _him._ His ghosts were always a part of him but they would never be him. Something about her arms and her eyes make him feel like he can be more than he thinks he is.

He sighs and wipes his eyes before suddenly realizing how tired he actually is. The ground is so close.

Akihiko lays down on the floor.

He feels the cold hardwood against his bare back and it's like jumping into a chilled pool on a hot day. Something shocks him and realizes that the sight of him is surely the most ridiculous thing in Gekkoukan, on Port Island, in Japan, on the planet.

Mitsuru lays down next to him, cranberry-red hair splaying out like tentacles between them. She lays her hands gently on her stomach and crosses her legs at the ankle, to which Akihiko can't help but laugh. She lets out a small, brief laugh next to him, tears still collecting in her eyes.

"We should visit Shinji," His name is like a bullet between the eyes. "I can pull strings for visitors." Mitsuru cranes her neck to look at him and in this light he looks like he did all those years ago when she found him at the middle school. She smiles.

"We can." Akihiko offers a smile in return, tears hitting his lips.

"We will."

* * *

 **a/n: Akihiko/Mitsuru will always be my companion ride or die to FeMC/Shinjiro. Always. I can't imagine a universe where the two don't eventually get together. This was meant to be an addendum to _Bird and Moon_ but it certainly works on its own. ****Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!**


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